


Can you reach me through me the static?

by OktobersSon



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OktobersSon/pseuds/OktobersSon
Summary: psst hey, you want a little break from slice of life? try this post-apocalypse Eboys AU, give the first couple chapters a chance and hopefully you'll join me for this strange journey.excerpt: He recognises the man on the dusty pavement below. Tall, almost gangly due to the lack of fat on his bones, a hat covers the majority of his hair however, an unwieldy brunette fringe sticks out in all directions from the front. George can't say what makes him so familiar, although an itch in the back of his mind suggests it’s all the sharp angles; sharp jaw, sharp eyebrows, lean limbs with sharp knees and sharp elbows. But, this is the new world and old memories aren’t allowed anymore so he doesn’t really recognise the stranger gingerly picking his way down the rubble strewn streets of the Wharf; unknowingly walking straight toward the very dangers his blood spattered jacket suggests he’s only recently escaped, didn’t recognise him in a way that means he can put a face and name together and come up with an explanation for how he knows him.
Relationships: George Andrew & Will Lenney, George Andrew/Will Lenney
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25





	1. I think I miss you? But I don't even know your name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DEC28 // WORK OVERHAULED** 
> 
> a big THANK YOU to comorbidity for beta'ing and helping this dyslexic choffer with their run-away commas and fucky tenses. my hero <3
> 
> this was supposed to be my 31 works for the Whumptober 2020 prompt list, however i started a new job in October so that's gone out the window, as i've already done a full outline and drafted most chapters i don’t want all that work to go to waste so here we are, i’ll still include the day's prompts in the note at the start of each chapter so you know what inspired that chapter.
> 
> i will warn you now this is one weird ride, not at all what I had planned going in; an AU just massively got its claws into me annnd now there’s fucking background lore, an apocalypse of sorts and just all kinds of wtf going on.
> 
> This is Day 1: Let’s hang out sometime (waking up restrained / shackled)

He recognises the man on the dusty pavement below. Tall, almost gangly due to the lack of fat on his bones. A hat covers the majority of his hair; however, an unwieldy brunette fringe sticks out in all directions from the front. George can't say what makes him so familiar, although an itch in the back of his mind suggests it’s all the sharp angles: sharp jaw, sharp eyebrows, lean limbs with sharp knees and sharp elbows.

But this is the new world, and old memories aren’t allowed anymore, so he doesn’t really recognise the stranger gingerly picking his way down the rubble strewn streets of the Wharf, unknowingly walking straight toward the very dangers his blood spattered jacket suggests he’s only recently escaped - doesn’t recognise him in a way that means he can put a face and name together and come up with an explanation for how he knows him. It’s a rare clear day when something from the Before makes it through the static, for a memory to lodge itself in someone’s mind akin to an earworm and demand acknowledgement. When sound, faces or after-images do seep through the mental haze, the memories are usually there and gone before they truly register, fleeting as a shadow, a minor irritation at worst. Most no longer pay them heed and those that do are soon reminded why they shouldn’t.

So George watches. And he tracks. And he tries very hard to come up with an excuse for why he’s doing so that doesn't include a haunting from the Before creeping up through shadowy vents in the deepest parts of his memory. Everyone has a role in his group, the Tribe that holds the largest (and safest) swathe of Wharftown, and George is a scout, a tracker, a scrapper. He goes, he finds, he collects that of use and he reports the goings on from the outskirts of their territory. Due to his stocky build, he isn’t made for the long strides and quick sprints needed for the hunting parties; however, his talents lie elsewhere, ensuring he keeps himself fed and of use. If anything, he considers himself just as integral as any of the tall, broad hunters.

So George keeps his distance, but as the ghost of his past skirts the edge of Tribe territory he follows along, chalking it up to his need to keep their borders secure rather than his burning curiosity to learn more about the tall stranger, who is still blindly walking headfirst into danger.

Will is at a loss. Both genuinely lost, despite the eerie familiarity of the rundown buildings around him, as well as injured, and with almost nothing left in his first aid kit his continued survival rate appears incredibly bleak. A sharp pinching sensation at the bottom of his rib cage suggests something is bruised, if not cracked, from when he’d fallen down a set of concrete steps in his haste to shake his pursuers. His right wrist is also a mess, bruised and swollen before his fall; the injury has since worsened into a fracture. And with no painkillers to take the edge off, each battles for dominance over the other, keeping Will aware he’s in no state to fight. In the simplest terms: he’s fucked.

However, the prickly feeling of being watched still hangs off his shoulders like a damp blanket regardless of the lack of screeching, howling or any of the usual sounds that suggest he’s imminently about to be ripped limb from limb. Unable to shake the feeling, Will forces himself to remain alert in spite of the dizziness caused by his overwhelming pain; eyes darting between windows and side streets as he continues up the weed-riddled road. He isn’t entirely sure he’s shaken the AD’s (Almost Deceased’s) - those who succumbed to static-sickness but didn’t take themselves out before their minds went, who chased him into the unfamiliar territory in the first place. 

Picking his way between the abandoned vehicles, Will’s scuffed trainers crunch through a sea of glass shards littering the road. A shadow off to the right catches his eye, snapping his gaze toward it, his muscles coiled tight in anticipation to flee should he be met with danger. Gasping, Will’s gaze lands on the partially disembowelled corpse of a man swaying crookedly from a streetlight, where he’s been hanged by the neck with an old electrical cord. Stumbling back in horror, back bumping up against an old Volkswagen Golf, Will’s feet scrabble for purchase in the snowfall of shards covering the ground, old trainers searching for grip while he blindly shoots out an arm to grab at the car for balance.

“Oh fuck!” exclaims Will, both from the protest of pain that radiates across his left side as well as in pure shock at the brutality before him. Clapping his other hand over his mouth upon realising how loudly he’s shouted, his face slips from disgust to wide-eyed fear. Will freezes, listening intently for any sign of movement that isn’t his own, as his ears pick up the unmistakable sound of several sets of boot-steps crunching toward him from the first turning past the bloated corpse. His heart drops into his stomach. All too aware he’s running from this new danger back toward the one he barely escaped an hour before, Will crouches low, meandering between the cars back the way he came, hand still over his mouth, only now in an attempt to muffle his panicked breathing. 

George watches the events unfold through his binoculars, leaning over an old desk he’s pushed up against a blown-out wall. He sweeps from the stranger, poorly sneaking up the street, to a scout across the way from him. They’re a member of the group whose territory backs up to the Tribe’s. As violent and sadistic as they are, they do respect the no-man's land between the two groups, so in spite of George’s pressing recognition he refuses to engage the opposition on the stranger’s behalf. Sweeping his gaze down from the rival scout he follows the progress of the five-strong group jogging round the corner. They quickly note the stranger’s progress up the road and give chase. A cacophony of shouts and hollers reverberate off the rubble of the old world, mixing with the crunch of boots on glass, as well as the pained scream of terror from the stranger as he sprints for the nearest side alley. Holding his left arm tight to his side as he runs, George considers his earlier assumption correct - the lanky ghost had been previously wounded. The unfortunate revelation leaves George all too aware his stranger won’t lose his tail.

Sighing in resignation, he goes back to sifting through the debris. He can’t let the merciless murder of a man he isn’t even sure he knows get him down. Knowing intervention would only get him exiled - or worse, start a turf-war, which would leave him liable to be offered as a peace sacrifice, a fate arguably worse than exile - he decides neither option looks as appealing as just doing nothing, getting on with his fairly secure life and forgetting he ever laid eyes on the tall, angular after-image from his past.

Will bolts, moving as fast and as far as his exhausted, malnourished body can carry him in what he hopes is the opposite direction to danger. Turning down an alleyway at the last minute, he twists awkwardly to duck under a tipped transport cart, hoping to buy a meagre amount of time to put distance between his attackers and himself. Taking a further right, then left turn before exiting the alleyway, Will finds himself back on a main road. Still able to hear the jeers of the angry hunters in the distance, he pushes on; however, he only manages to jog several paces down the road before he’s forced to slow by a severe flare of pain across his ribcage. Crouching as low as he can handle behind a transit van, Will pauses to catch his breath, periodically peering around the side in the hopes of locating a place to lay low overnight. With darkness drawing in fast and his condition only worsening, Will elects to try the next street over. A whisper in the back of his mind suggests there’s a hotel nearby. Peering around the van a final time, he notes the street is still clear, so he takes his chance and shoots across the road as fast as he’s capable.

Upon rounding a sidestreet he risks fully standing so he can move faster, trying to slow jog without irritating his wrist or ribs. Will doesn’t make it far before the sound of a soft whistle drifts out from a turning to his right, startling him. The initial noise is swiftly followed by the crack of rebar impacting the side of Will’s head, giving him less than a heartbeat to respond or flee. Darkness crowds in without giving him time to kiss life goodbye.

Jolting awake, Will knocks the breath out of himself, groaning as a fresh shockwave of pain drags him into full consciousness. The events of the day previous make themselves known in a clamouring headache originating from a sticky contusion on the left side of his head. The pain radiating from his wrist in mind-boiling pulses concerns him the most; however, when he attempts to raise his arms to take a closer look, the clattering of chains and a sharp tugging lead to further gut roiling agony, so he quickly abandons that plan.

A quick survey of his surroundings has Will conclude he’s being held captive in the back warehouse of a large store. Perhaps a supermarket? His cage is makeshift, simple builders fencing held together with a menagerie of padlocks, chains and even zip ties in places. His shackles are also clearly handmade, consisting of long lengths of chain connected to pieces of haphazardly bent scrap metal, roughly binding his wrists and rubbing them raw in the process. The light filtering in only allows Will to see so far, but he can hear commotion and movement from deeper into the complex, as well as whimpering and groaning from the cages either side of him. Accepting he won’t be making a great escape with such severe injuries, Will lays back down on the concrete floor. Trying to control his rising panic, he considers his bleak future and what such a violent group of people may have planned for him next.

The hours pass slowly in his cold cage, but eventually Will slips in and out of fitful sleep. He’s quietly trying to doze off in spite of the pain from his injuries when several shrill screams start up only to be abruptly cut off, followed by a series of emphatic shouts and cheers. The noise rings out from some unknown corner of the building but is nevertheless loud enough to shock Will from his nap. Freezing in fear, Will begins silently begging the universe not to let him die at the hands of such brutal captors.

Several uneventful weeks tick by - until one eventful night a shadow silently darts through the inky darkness, disturbing little but the air as it ghosts past the night scouts, journeying deeper into unfamiliar territory. Cursing himself with every further step into the unknown, the shadow questions his sanity for attempting the midnight rescue of a man whose name he can’t even recall.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m Novi, this is my RPF account. i’ve been lurking in the fandom for a while. i hope you enjoy joining me for where ever post apocalypse horror-esque thing decides to go.
> 
> you can find me @novioktober on Tumblr or if you ask nicely i might share which Eboys account i am over there (hint it's not memeuless as that was already taken lmao).
> 
> Thanks for reading, remember every comment, kudos, bookmark and subscription fuels my caffeine induced writing haze! Novi, <3


	2. When will it end? My minds looping thoughts of you again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one of *those* weeks... Poor Will can't catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** DEC28 // WORK OVERHAULED *** 
> 
> BIG BIG BIG thank you to comorbidity for beta'ing! their ability to wrangle my awful comma's and track down missing words is second to none, you big damn hero you <3
> 
> Day 2: In the hands of the enemy (i picked the prompt: collars)

Sat atop a throne of warped steel and cinder blocks, softened by heavy throws and an assortment of cheap faux-velvet cushions, sits a young woman with an impressive mane of caramel-hued ringlets. A pair of intelligent eyes lined with sharp black wings survey the three people lined up before her with bored disdain. Each kneels on one knee, bowing in respect to their leader. Olga is not a woman to be messed with; as such, she only allows the most brutal and ruthless from the London wastes into her ranks. The individuals lined up in front of her are hopeful point men for her hunting parties - the catch being that only one can win the position. Now that each has secured a prisoner, she will choose her favourite capture and grant his hunter the coveted position of leadership.

“You’ve wasted no time acquiring your gifts. So let's not waste a moment more, show them to me and we shall find out which among you has impressed me and which among you shall be sacrificed for your inadequacies,” Olga’s raspy voice rings out, commanding in the heavy silence, the slightest echo bouncing off the high ceilinged room only adds to her grandeur. The three assembled hopefuls dip their heads in understanding but otherwise make no sound, merely standing in unison to escort their leader from the throne room into the repurposed warehouse. Whereupon, they lead her to several rows of cages in the far left corner, a hastily constructed wall of corrugated roofing sheets has been erected to separate the would-be prison from the rest of the warehouse; an area mostly used for storage, training or make-shift weapons construction.

Olga walks along the back row of scrap cages, eyeing each of the prizes. A rotation of guards keeps a constant vigil despite the occupants being bound or, in many cases, too injured to make a run for freedom. The current rotation stands to attention upon Olga’s arrival, each of the five guards bears a menagerie of fresh cuts and old scars, their clothing nondescript but dark, with close cropped hair regardless of gender. Fit as they are, many of them sport obvious signs of long term injury or illness; some missing parts of limbs, partially blinded or displaying other motor-impairment. Although they’re no longer considered for the hunting parties, their previous victories ensure their continued life amongst the pack, though they’re relegated to guarding captures or patrolling the compound.

Walking back and forth along the aisle, Olga pauses momentarily outside Will’s cage. Eventually, once she feels she’s given each gift due consideration, she stops a final time. Pointing to a woman standing guard, she motions her over,

“Get him out, I want to take a closer look at him,” commands Olga, flicking her wrist towards Will’s cage. The older woman moves immediately, pulling a set of padlock keys from her jacket pocket as she does so. She drags a collared Will by a length of chain over to her Queen, where she roughly shoves him in a pained heap at her feet. With his breath knocked out of him, Will can only gaze up at Olga while he wheezes. The tall woman stares down at him with a face devoid of emotion. Recognising she holds importance over the rest of the assembled men and women, he waits for her to address him. 

“I like this one. I like him a lot,” Olga states firmly, staring down at Will while giving the chain a sharp tug. When Will grunts in pain, her expression shifts into something closer to amused over anything resembling concern at the extent of his injuries before giving the chain a second harsh tug.

“Shame that feeling ain’t mutual” Will grumbles under his breath. His comment is met with a hard slap across the face; the caustic laugh of his captor in the face of his disobedience leaves his ears ringing.

“Look at that, still so spirited. He'll be a pleasure to break. You-” She points at the man who’d secured Will’s capture. With a headache still very much pounding throughout his brain tissue, Will grimaces at the memory of rebar slugging him upside the head upon recognising him,

“Congratulations, you’ve earned your promotion well. You pair, however, have disappointed me. Cuff them, take them to the posts and leave them overnight. We’ll make a dawn spectacle of them so I have something to watch with my breakfast.” As soon as the words leave Olga’s mouth, several Pride members spring into action, roughly grabbing at the soon to be executed man and woman. Neither go down without a fight, howling with frustration and calling into question Olga’s decision as they struggle against the guards restraining them. They're soon subdued, the female gagged as the male's knocked out. Will watches as they're bound and dragged out of sight through a side door, quickly ignoring their retreating figures when he notices the grey afternoon light filtering in through a set of exit doors a few paces down the corridor. Quickly he makes a mental note that the left hand corridor leads to freedom, before he too is dragged off to the right, deeper into the complex.

Will’s next few weeks can be defined in one word: pain. His injuries have yet to be treated, leaving him in agony every time Olga yanks on his leash for the hell of it while he sits statuesque at the foot of her throne, trying not draw further attention to himself. Moreover, she enjoys dragging him along while she carries out her rounds, inspects her hunters or joins an afternoon sparring session.

Frequently Will sustains further injuries at Olga’s hands; although superficial, little more than a swift kick if she deems him in the way or a jarring shove if he can't move fast enough, he considers her treatment rubbing salt in the wound, exacerbating what he's already coping with, enough so that Will finds himself relieved when Olga begins leaving him with others. It’s an occurrence happening more frequently as the weeks drag on. The people she leaves him with are fearful of damaging their Queen’s ‘property’; as such, most resort to shouting at him then giving his leash a sharp tug when they feel he’s done something punishment worthy, but not stooping to the casual slaps, kicks and other cruelties that Olga deems fun.

Olga’s abandonment becomes a fate to befall him more often as the weeks wear on. Will is partially thankful for Olga’s short attention span, quickly boring of him when her favour falls on a fresh captive twice his size, in both height and muscle. Although Will doesn’t envy her new favourite, who spends a significant amount of his time in a lot less clothing than himself, he is however grateful for the space it buys him.

Other Pride members are clearly less interested in him, doing the bare minimum to appease Olga, merely dragging Will along behind them or tying him to something as they perform their duties. Their carelessness leaves Will the unobserved time he needs to familiarise himself with the warrens of the Pride’s compound, as well as time to look for exits in the hope of finding an opportunity to escape. The Queen's new distraction also has Will all too aware Olga may decide he isn't worth her attention any longer, at which point he knows he'll be ‘put down.’ she never refers to any of the frequent executions or needless slaughter as anything but, truly believing she’s doing everyone a favour by murdering prisoners or those she deems too ‘weak’ to support the group - subsequently causing Will a rising anxiety that his time to execute an escape plan is quickly ticking down to nothing.

Will feels his time as one of Olga’s favoured prisoners drawing to an end. Instead of sleeping on the floor at the foot of her bed as he did his first couple weeks, or on a threadbare blanket with his ankle chained to her throne as he did the next couple, he nowfinds himself back in a cage. The man who captivated her so recently makes a bid for freedom that ends with him run through with several spears. Unfortunately, with him dead, Olga has no one to take out her frustrations on… except for Will, who she beats until he begs for mercy, then relegates to a cold cage without food nor medical intervention. Laying quietly on a concrete floor so cold it makes his joints ache, Will’s hope for ever leaving the complex dwindles to nothing as the damning click of the padlock rings out through the silence. Will’s thoughts turn to his fate; exhausted, hungry and with the wound on his head now reopened and continuously trickling blood, a resigned corner of Will’s mind hopes his end will be swift and soon, even as the rest tries to convince him not to give up. After all, he’s never been one to let his fears get the best of him.

Turning his head to the side in an attempt to find a more comfortable position for the weeping slash, Will notices movement. A ghost of a movement, barely a fleeting undulation of the gloom. The shadow creeps silently toward Will through the darkness, forcing him to squint just to make out their silhouette in the low light of the shanty walled prison. The figure brings a finger to their lips in a shushing motion, making sure Will has seen the gesture before jerking a thumb over their shoulder and repeating the universal sign for silence a second time. Will nods in understanding: ‘shut up or you’ll summon the cavalry.’ That's the absolute last thing he wants, so he keeps his questions locked behind his teeth until a safer opportunity presents itself. Moving closer in their signature low crouch, the figure edges close enough for Will to discern they're male and covered from head to foot in black: black hat, jacket, trousers and boots, with a black covering over the lower half of his face. The darkness makes his eyes appear as black as his outfit, pupils blown wide to absorb any available light. Will finds the effect disquieting - truly a ghost at home amongst the shadows.

Making no move to get up off the floor, Will continues silently laying on his side as his visitor fiddles with the lock. The lack of light makes it hard to discern if he's picking it or gained a set of keys through other means. In the relative quiet of the makeshift prison, the noise of the padlock springing open is loud, sound vibrating along the metal mesh of each cell. Even the quiet whimpering or pained moans of the other cells is seemingly silenced by the mere presence of their shadowy intruder, as though each is holding their breath in anticipation. Of what? Will isn’t sure. Perhaps hope that they too will be released, that this ghost among them might be there to release them all, that Will is just the first and he is their saviour ready to lead them all to freedom.

The sound of boot-steps heading in their direction plummets Will’s heart as swiftly as it had the day of his capture. Closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch his almost-rescuer flee back into the darkness from where he materialised, Will waits for the second pair of boot-steps, this time in retreat, to reach his ears. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the creak of the cage hinges, followed by the press of a body up against his own as the unknown man leans in close beside him, using Will as cover in case anyone on patrol passes their cell.

The boot-steps grow closer as a pair of guards round on the nearest corner. Will recognises the female of the pair from his original stay in the prison due to her missing right arm from the elbow down, as well as a striking scar along the side of her shaved head. The guards chat about their annoyance at missing the arena event taking place that evening as they sweep a torch back and forth between the cells they pass, neither appearing to be in alarm or aware of the prison break in progress. Unconcerned for the welfare of the occupants, the pair barely spare the prisoners a glance as they continue down the row. In a particularly cruel act the young man crushes the fingers of a captive three cells along from Will as he reaches to grasp at the leg of the guards combat trousers, begging for water as he does so. Nonplussed to his thirst, the guard grinds the prisoner’s fingers into the concrete, waiting until he screams before letting up. Will winces at sound, but the man on the ground beside him doesn’t so much as flinch. He’s so still that Will tries to discreetly check if he’s even breathing, squinting in deference to the darkness for the telltale rise and fall signifying life.

Minutes tick by while the footsteps steadily fade into the quiet ambience Will’s come to associate with the prison: a combination of activity from further into the warehouse bleeding into the tortured moans and quiet crying of the other cells' inhabitants. Finally the shadow behind him shifts, slowly rising into a crouch before coming to stillness once more. Will, realising the other is waiting, staring at Will, picks up the cue and manages with some difficulty to get himself into a sitting position. Hoping that due to the poor visibility offered by the gloomy environment it isn’t clear to his would-be rescuer quite what a state he’s in following the vicious beating earlier in the evening, the fear of being abandoned when he can finally see a light flickering at the end of tunnel causes a nauseous roil in Will’s guts. He nods in an attempt at reassurance to the crouched figure beside him, who responds with a curt nod of his own. Once they've both ascertained Will isn’t imminently about to keel over, the dark-clothed stranger turns to gently push the cage door open. They both wince with every creak of the hinges, but as soon as he's opened it enough to slip through, the shadowy figure swiftly starts his way back down the row of cages, only stopping to crack open more locks while he waits for Will to catch up.

They navigate well in spite of the lack of light, making their way through the small maze of thirty odd cages without getting too turned around by the dark. As Will and his quiet companion, who hasn’t spoken a word up to this point, approach the main thoroughfare linking the prison to the rest of the warehouse and beyond, Will recalls the exit he spotted through the side doors the day Olga picked her point-man. Tugging on the shoulder of the silent man's jacket, Will leads him into the corridor and toward what he hopes will be freedom. His rescuer beelines toward the exit doors, clearly knowing his way round the compound better than Will. The sign above them labelled 'Loading Bay' glows weakly, highlighting little of the corridor but standing out in the darkness like a beacon guiding the way to safety.

Pushing through the heavy double doors and feeling the initial breeze on his face for the first time in weeks, the dust always inherent on the post-fall air sticking to the back of throat, Will finally, finally, finally believes in spite of his injuries and the eerie sensation of Knowing that the Wharf always evokes in chest, that he might survive his recent poor luck. The relief washing through him causes a prickling at the corners of his eyes that has nothing to do with the lingering Static in the air. Pinning all his newfound hope on his newfound friend, Will follows him into the early morning mist, finding a new appreciation for the way the icy air chills his lungs. Despite knowing they aren’t out of the woods yet, he truly believes his shadow-clad rescuer could get them out of Pride territory and on the road to safety.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, remember every comment, kudos, bookmark and subscription fuels my caffeine induced writing haze! Novi <3 hmu on tumblr: @novioktober


	3. There’s war in my mind. And I think I’m losing (don’t let me fall).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> makin' my way downtown, runnin' fast and i'm doom bound...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My way or the highway (prompt: manhandled).
> 
> *****// text here \\\ ***** - means timeskip.

He had hope and yet again he’s lost. Will isn’t built for this life, or he doesn’t reckon so anyway, spending far too much time in his own mind, pressing back against the static in an attempt to pick out truths and knowledges about himself long forgotten. Despite having spent much of his time alone without a group or tribe or even a raiding party to call his own, the small time he has spent with others, combined with the all-enveloping pressure of the Static when he fights a little too hard to keep a hold of a memory, has taught Will that it isn’t right how much time he spends reminiscing on the past. That it isn’t normal how much he can recall, that people aren’t supposed to go digging for history in the rubble strewn grave of the old world. So, as his beat-up trainers pound the pavement, heart thudding in time and the screaming of his bruised lung and cracked rib causing tears to stream down his face, blurring his vision to the point the man sprinting ahead of him becomes the smudged idea of a silhouette, Will wonders why the fuck he continues to bother. With anything. With everything. With...

What was once an uncommon doubt to plague him, Will finds in recent weeks is becoming a painful burden at the back of his mind. Here he is, facing down danger, so soon after reclaiming his freedom, and yet again it looks as if he’s going to lose it, and potentially his life too. The hope he’s always carried in spades is getting harder and harder to dig up after each dance with death, and maybe Will has finally hit bedrock. What if’s and why bother’s dance restless around his mind, alongside a creeping whisper, so sickly sweet he doesn't realise it's smothering him until he starts struggling to do something so simple as breathe. Like Eve being tempted by the snake, Will’s newfound demon whispers a simple suggestion in his ear, deceptively simple, suggesting all Will needs to do is give up. Give up and he can rest, painless and free. Forever. He isn’t built for this life, so why suffer so needlessly? It’s a promise looking more attractive with each slap of his worn down sole on the cracked, uneven pavement. Just slow his tread a little bit… he is tired, after all. Running out of breath. The howling ruckus barrelling down the street behind him can do the rest.

*******//**

“Why is it so hard for you to do as you’re fucking told?” _George found his voice._ ****

Which for Will would be fine - he has a lot of questions he wants answers to, after all - if it isn’t for the fact that, every time George opens his mouth it's to berate Will or demand something of him. Which, again, would be fine… if Will had any idea who this man is. What he wants. Or where he’s taking Will. There’s also the issue of his head wound, a concern he wants to stop and attend to, but every time he slows their exhausting pace his perpetually annoyed counterpart is on him immediately: ‘We can't slow down now;’ ‘What are you doing? Keep moving’; ‘Hurry up before you get us killed!’ or some variation thereof. ****

“Look mate, I don’t even know who you are. You just appeared out of fuck nowhere and expected me to follow you,” Will replies. “How am I supposed to know what you want from me, or if it’s even safe to go with you?” He’s unable to keep the frustration out of his voice in spite of his self-awareness at how ungrateful he must sound to his jailbreaker, a man who clearly marched into enemy territory simply to rescue him. However, he’s sick of being ordered around, and furthermore he’s quickly tiring of all the mystery and unanswered questions that cloak his new friend better than the shadows he materialised from. Sitting heavily on a curb behind an abandoned apartment building, he petulantly toes his shoe through shards from the many shattered windows littering the floor. In the dark of night he struggles to find familiar landmarks, but the mess of crystalline fragments half-convinces him they’ve finally come full circle, back to where his cursed week began.

Dropping his head into his hands, Will gingerly runs the pads of his fingers across the contusion on the side of his head. The long jagged split is tacky and sore, but for the first time in the several days since his escape he’s relieved to find it no longer bleeding. Nervous of hitting his head, or more likely being hit round the head, Will desperately wants to dress the wound; however, he lost his backpack during the chase that left him wandering wounded in Pride territory prior to his capture. With his companion so prickly, when Will considers asking to borrow the medical kit strapped to the side of his backpack, he quickly rejects the idea in favour of keeping his mouth closed, staring at the floor between his knees and counting the seconds until he’ll be forced, exhausted and confused, to keep moving again.

“I’m trying to help you. How is that not obvious? I broke into the Pride’s main fucking camp for you. If my group finds out, that's straight up exile or death for me. Why the fuck would I do that if I just wanted to kill you myself?” George rants, crunching back and forth through the glittering detritus in front of Will, seemingly unable to stop and sit for even a handful of seconds while Will catches his breath and checks his injuries. Unlike Will, George is all too aware they’re not out of the woods yet, steadily approaching the intersection where the edge of Pride turf meets a popular AD hunting ground. ****

“I have no idea what half the shit you said even means!” Exclaims Will by way of response, being facetious so he doesn’t have to face his glaring ungratefulness, as well as the obvious logic to the shorter man's statement. ****

“So? You’ve got to have understood enough to get that I’m not out to get you, right?” George finally comes to a stop, toe to toe with Will’s scuffed trainers. He stares him down while Will refuses to meet his eyes, staring somewhere past George’s right knee. ****

“I guess...” Will trails off, being belligerent for the sake of it. ****

“You’re fucking impossible. Why the fuck did I bother?” George spits incredulously, the latter half of his sentence softer, more to himself than Will. ****

“Dunno,” Will replies with a shrug, desperately attempting to hold back the small smile threatening the edge of his mouth, “Been asking myself the same thing. Think you’re a little suspicious to be honest, sneaking everywhere with your face covered an’ all.”

“You’re such a dick. _I’m trying to help you!_ ” George counters, throwing his arms wide, becoming increasingly exasperated with Will’s refusal to accept the rescue at face value until they’re in a safer place for George to explain himself. He’s still struggling to work out whether it’s through pride on the injured man's part or genuine suspicion at George’s intent, making it difficult for George to work out how best to placate him. The easy grin slowly beginning to relax Will's face into something less fraught gives George his answer. For whatever reason he's stubbornly refusing to accept George's motive, and on top of that, he’s now fucking with George for the sake of it.

"You're fucking with me. "Stating the obvious, George narrows his eyes in response.

"Might be. You're so grumpy and serious all the time, hard not to really," Will replies, finally meeting George’s eyes, some of the tension he’s been carrying finally easing from his stiff shoulders.

"I'm not grumpy!" ****

"Are too," retorts Will childishly.

"Am not," George counters just as childishly, enjoying their easy banter more than he's willing to let on. Memories of times Before restlessly shift from their hibernation at the back of his mind. He shrugs them off with a shiver. Best not to go there right now.

"Well you sound it!" laughs Will.

"Yeah…" George trails off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Been told that before to be fair." Dropping his hand from the back of his neck, George sticks his arm out, pulling Will up when he grabs his hand. Feeling mutual companionship for the first in a long time, Will ambles after George as they move off at a much more comfortable pace. Not even the distant shift of rubble followed by a shrieking howl can ruin the hopeful peace settling in Will’s chest. George can get them out of anything to come.

\\\ ***** ****

"Don't you fucking dare," George growls, suddenly much closer to Will than he had been several seconds ago, shocking him out of his dark thoughts. When the rough polyester of George's glove clasps Will's bare hand he blinks over at him astonished, almost tripping over his own feet when George picks up the pace, effectively dragging him along behind. Clearly aware of the war currently raging in Will's mind, but uncaring for Will's opinion, George claims the battlefield for his own, shaping the outcome as he wishes. They will survive today whether Will wants to or not. He drags Will along, forcing him to keep pace and resolutely ignoring the howls as they continue to grow steadily louder at their backs.

Ducking into an underground carpark at the last minute and weaving between the cars, George bolts for the stairwell with Will in tow. He slams the door shut behind them in the hope that AD’s can’t operate pull doors. Much weaving, many random side streets and several odd changes in direction follow, with Will at confused mercy to George’s whims. If George has a final location in mind, Will is at loss for what or where it is.

Evening is drawing in, casting London in the confusing half-haze that comes with the dying sunlight meeting the encroaching darkness. George pulls them through a park, where nature, overgrown and unkempt, has obliterated the tarmac, gnarled roots churning up the asphalt in trip hazards easily obfuscated by the low light and foliage. But Will’s ever-mysterious companion seems to know where he’s going, whispering instructions to Will between harsh breaths. Once they’ve crossed the park, exchanging the vestiges of glass towers and the discarded memories of humanity’s materialistic past for an old housing estate, the majority of the buildings already crumbling and exposed to the elements, George leads them on a twisting path, barely pausing when the road forks. He’s seemingly moving with a destination in mind. Will works out he’s leading them toward a tipped tower block silhouetted against the setting sun ahead of them, the great burnished red building resting at a sharp angle against its neighbor. 

Approaching the collapsing block, George slows his pace, straining his hearing for any signs they aren’t alone. If they haven’t lost their pursuers, George is hopeful they’ll at least go undetected long enough for Will to get a few hours of sleep by laying low in one of the harder to reach collapsed apartments. Climbing in through a hole in the side of the building, George uses the rubble to reach several floors higher, at which point he takes a right through a large hole into one of the partially exposed apartments, leading Will into a less open bedroom toward the back of the rotted out home.

“Think you can climb up there?” George points to a smaller hole in the roof of the apartment. 

Too weary to process George’s request, Will simply nods in response and then watches George climb on to the dresser and into the apartment above, motioning for Will to follow as the rest of him disappears through barely man-sized crack in the plaster.

Following several tense seconds of quiet grunting and cursing, George heaves himself over the crumbling ledge. As he stands, brushing the dirt from his jacket, Will struggles up after him, rolling over the ledge and lying on his back to catch his breath before he eventually tries getting to his feet. A low groan from behind him has George turning sharply, catching Will by the shoulders before he can pitch backwards over the ledge.

Pulling his disorientated companion toward himself George clasps his face in one hand while checking his temperature with the other, noting the heat as well as the sweat beading his forehead. George turns Will’s face to examine the wound at his temple. In his haste George handles Will too roughly, inadvertently jostling his fractured wrist and ribs eliciting a hiss of pain in response. Upon seeing the red, shiny contusion surrounded by a web of thin dark veins George doesn’t need to check Will’s other wounds to know he has an infection, but he does so anyway; gently clasping his forearm, he rolls up the crusty, bloodied sleeve as gently as he can manage. Will’s wrist is a mess. Swollen and sticky with discoloured fluids, the broken flesh appears stretched awkwardly in some places but tattered and flayed in others where the wrist swelled around the fracture, managing to encompass some of the other wounds and tears in the process - it appears as though his arm lost a fight with a meat grinder. An angry reddening has spread from the wound site as far as George has rolled up Will’s sleeve, almost to the elbow, and a webbing of dark veins is beginning to follow. Combined with his clammy forehead and heavy eyes, George doesn’t need a doctor to tell him Will is a very unwell man. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you had an infection, Will? I have stuff to treat that,” George huffs worriedly, forcing Will to sit on the ground when he sways. There’s little fight left in him, and he mutters gratefully when George encourages him to lay out flat. He quickly drops his back pack to the floor so he can placing his still-warm jacket under Will’s head as a makeshift pillow before turning to rummage through the pack for antibiotics and a bottle of clean water to clean the wounds with.

“I didn’t… infected..” Will trails off before passing out, though George catches enough to understand what he means. Sighing in exasperation, he settles in to keep watch over Will, biding his time and making his injured companion as comfortable as he can before the inevitable fever hits. 

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry it's been so long, life just gets in the way and then i went through a phase of hating everything i'd written, but im back on the wagon and just overhauling and writing through the hatred.
> 
> Thanks for reading -- especially if you've been with me since chapter 1, remember every comment, kudos, bookmark and subscription fuels my caffeine induced writing haze! Novi <3


	4. who's going to save you from yourself again (i've seen patience wait on you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OooOooOOoOoOOoOOOOH bother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realised they'd never formally introduced themselves whoops
> 
> Day 4: Running out of time (caged / buried alive / collapsed building)

The fever takes 3 days to break. Unfortunately they can’t afford to be complacent. Night is the worst time to travel but on the eve of the second day, sun barely yet peeking over the horizon, they find themselves chased from their hideaway. George moves as fast as he dares while pulling a still partially delirious Will along behind.

The ADs chase and screech and howl so close behind that Will’s ears ring along with the cacophony. The glimpse he catches as George hauls him across the car park is haunting, barely human; they move with a strangely lithe yet clumsy gait, throwing themselves into each movement purely on instinct - to hunt, to kill, to eat, everything else secondary. They fall more than climb the perimeter wall, barely slowing following the nose dive they tackle the cars with the same rubber limbed tenacity, taking the obstacles in their stride by rolling over them and lunging back into their signature hunched run. 

They reminded Will of zombies. Shameless in their tattered or lacking clothing, with patchy hair and pockmarked skin, reddened and flaky from too long spent at the mercy of the elements. He’s never voiced this idea however, so he makes a mental note to ask his companion if he remembers zombies in a way that won't make him mad at the almost taboo question - maybe he’ll ask if he’s found any related posters or comics.

Leaving the dilapidated housing estate they come upon a building site, paused eternally with scaffolding still standing, the partial ruin appears to be an old boathouse. Once requiring renovation for the 21st century the architecture in its current ramshackle state is now at home amongst the relics of a world considered Before. George leads Will through the rotted out double doors barely slowing to squeeze through the space left where they’ve collapsed together at an angle. The interior of the building is a mess, nature's attempts to reclaim the structure have led to a mass of crawling vine twisting and sneaking up the walls and through the scaffolding causing the poles to loosen, groaning in the lax support of the greenery. The wooden floor feels unsteady, almost too flexible beneath their feet as they run down the middle of the boat shed, dodging old equipment and stacked building supplies as they go.

When a boney figure lurches through a window smashing through what little glass remained they both shout in surprise, skidding across loose chunks of sandstone to slow down. The AD falls through, quickly followed by another, the splintering of wood signals the rest before they’re rushing in through the exit Will and George had been heading for. 

Once used for transporting goods up the levels of the scaffolding several planks lie at a steep but walk-able angle off to their right, Will doesn’t think, fear taking over he hauls George toward the rickety support structure. The AD’s throw themselves at the scaffolding. The majority ignore the ladders simply free climbing the metal framework akin to sharp toothed children on a jungle gym - ease but no grace. The pair continue to climb until they come upon a ladder, at which point George seems to pause, weighing their options. Swapping places with Will he shoves him toward it, who doesn’t get more than a foot on it when the plank beneath them judders violently as several AD’s haul themselves onto the same level only a few paces up. George whispers something Will doesn’t catch, words lost beneath the screeching raucous despite him being only cm away. With barely a chance to look over and ask his mysterious stranger what the fuck they do now the world lurches sideways.

Will feels his stomach swoop before his brain catches up. The scaffolding collapses with a low groaning from the struggling supports, further punctuated by the crunchy snap of the vines giving up. Will’s falling. Tumbling downwards with the rest of the unsecured structure, straight through the softened wood floor and into the sub-basement. A scream tears free of his throat as a physical sensation, the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears deafening him to the sound of it. _But I just got you back_ is the last coherent thought Will manages then everything goes black.

Will comes to coughing, never a fan of sleeping flat on his back this didn’t surprise him, what did surprise him however was the inability to roll onto his side. Finding hunks of concrete, plaster and twisted metal either side and the ceiling far too close for comfort all of a sudden, he shuffles his legs in a panicked scrabble trying to make heads or tails of his new surroundings in the near darkness when he’s shocked into stillness by a pained grunt.

"Oh! Sorry mate, was that your leg?” Will’s fear at being trapped is only slightly tampered upon remembering he’s not alone, mysterious new companion and saviour ever at his side.

“Yeah, could’ve done without your boot in my ankle thanks,” Comes George’s curt response. Not wanting not wanting his new found friend to stop talking lest he be left alone amidst the rubble and darkness Will scrambles for something else to say.

“Hey, uh... Don’t ‘spose your name’s George?” The words just slip out. Will knows he’s giving up far too much information, but he needs the distraction from their current predicament and has always had the tendency to blurt the first thing that comes to mind when he’s stressed. Before he can think better of it the words are out there and Will’s panic swiftly morphs to include a new-found fear of George spurning him the minute he puts two and two together and realises Will’s referencing Before times.

“Right now isn’t the time to be asking how you know that but don’t you dare do a runner when we get out of here. I have questions,” There's a small mean streak in George that'd hoped he wasn’t the only one to recognise the other. However, the vindication of being proven right is tainted by the fact they’re imminently about to be crushed to death, although he resolves to pick Will’s brain if they make it out alive.

“I take it, that's a yes? I’m Will,” He introduces himself, fears slightly assuaged when George doesn’t immediately hush or cuss him, instead suggesting they’ll have a chance to talk further about Will’s memories once they’re safe - an opportunity he’s never been afforded before.

“Cool, don’t care,” George returns bluntly, more concerned with getting out of the rubble pile that was more liable to become their grave with each minute they spend wasting air rather than digging themselves out.

“Oh… Alright then,”

“What’re you after, a medal? Now ain’t the time to be exchanging pleasantries, help me get out of here,” George refuses to feel bad about the hurt in Will’s tone, all too aware the longer they spend idle the more likely they’ll end up dead, a fact Will doesn’t seem to realise.

“And what do you expect me to do exactly?” Will says incredulously, they’re stuck under several floors of collapsed building and he’s injured… The fear of George getting free then abandoning him resurfaces with sudden force - it would equate to a death sentence in his current condition. Attempting to swallow thickly around the dust collecting in his throat the action is noisy to his own ears and he wonders if George can hear the panic in his quick breaths and sticky throat.

“Honestly, how the fuck have you made it this long? Maybe... I don’t know don’t just lay there and die would be a great start,” He sighs then considers the best way to extract them both without disturbing the rubble too much, risking one of them being crushed or their location being advertised to anything untoward still in the area, “I’m small-” George begins to say although he’s interrupted by Will faster than he can finish his sentence,

“Well I mean you said it, I wasn’t gonna bring it up,” He interjects nonchalantly albeit there’s a shake to his voice that he knows won't miss George’s keen ears - had they not been buried under a mass of rubble and plaster he would have shrugged along with his statement. George almost laughs however the grit in air causes him to cough instead,

“Oh fuck off. What I was going to say is I’m small so I should be able to get out of here no problem then we can work on dragging you out after,” He doesn’t want to bring up the fact he’s also uninjured, moreover from what he’s seen of Will so far he’s woefully lacking in survival instinct. It’ll just be simpler for George to dig himself out then go back for Will.

“Please don’t leave me under here, I know we don’t each other that well but if you’re going to bail just put me out of me misery first would you,” George hears the panic in the octave Will’s voice climbs even as he tries to pass off his comment as humour.

“Christ Will, I’m not going to leave you, I’m gonna get us both out, just try not to panic, okay?” His reply is soft, hoping a faux-calm demeanour might quell the anxiety threatening to overwhelm an already unwell Will. Not known for his skills at placation, George is finding himself doing an awful lot more than he’s used to now he’s travelling with Will, but regardless of his inexperience his response seems to have the desired effect.

“Trying not to lad, but I didn’t think I was claustrophobic until very recently, like a couple hours ago recently when a building collapsed on my face,” His fear is still evident nevertheless Will tries to put on a brave front against his claustrophobia and abandonment issues. Pride twinges somewhere in George’s chest, he quickly clamps down on it, confusion swiftly follows on its heels.

He isn’t sure how long it takes, a couple hours at least, but with much gentle jostling, awkward twisting and one armed digging - protecting his face from the shifting stone with the other, George eventually manages to heave himself out of his sandstone and plaster tomb. Several scaffold bars provide good handholds to pull himself out with nevertheless when he eventually resurfaces he’s soaked through with sweat and breathing hard, pulling down his face covering he takes several deep lungfuls of fresh air. Supporting himself against one of the steel poles while he considers how best to dig Will out, a pit settles uneasily in George’s stomach upon realising how close they'd come to being skewered by the collapsed scaffolding.

Giving a low whistle first George begins softly calling Will’s name, repeating himself louder until he finally gets a response, with a loose location he begins shifting the crumbly sandstone. He hurts all over and there's a burn in his arms that suggests carrying his backpack is going to suck for at least the next month but he doesn't stop, he promised Will he wouldn't leave him and as unlucky as the other man had proven to be thus far his he'd grown fond in their short time travelling together, wiping some sweat from his brow George doubles down for a long evening. Tracking the sun as it plots a course for the horizon his digging becomes more insistent all too aware what takes over as apex in depopulated areas come nightfall. When he finally uncovers Will he fights to keep his face neutral, knowing he's also a sight for sore eyes George still doubts he looks as close to death as Will.

"We're staying here tonight, too late to travel now," He says with finality, the building collapse will have scared off the AD's nor do they like being out in the open past dark - even they know when prey isn't worth the effort, his reasoning combined with Will's deathly appearance is enough to convince George their danger isn't imminent enough to force Will to keep moving. Will's brows pinch and he looks as though he's going to argue however, upon being pulled upright by George he promptly sinks to his knees with the force of the nausea that rolls through him, already sweating as though he were the one who spent the best part of half a day digging through rubble, the sheer exhaustion that follows means he's in no state to argue with George's decision. Trusting him to keep them both safe come what may.

They'd fallen into the sub-basement of the boat house, in spite of the majority of it being inaccessible due to the rest of the building falling with them a quick scout leads to a handful of doors: 2 offices, a storage room and a bathroom. The storage room is cramped and smells of mildewed cardboard, however the door is still lockable with a key Will discovers in one of the office desks so they choose that as their camp for the night. George returns with a small bowl of water he'd managed to coax from the bathroom sinks, in a repeat of their previous evening he gets Will to lay down using George's jacket as a makeshift pillow before tending to his wounds as well as washing the sandstone dust from Will's face and hair in an act of affection that surprises himself.

They settle in for a restless night.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor Will can't catch a break. dw the tables will turn also James and Alex do turn up eventually.


End file.
